


Snow Woman

by daughtershade



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:44:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daughtershade/pseuds/daughtershade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You meet the strangest people in this job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Woman

He was dreaming about snow flakes. They were each perfect and unique. They fell slowly through the chilled air, bobbing back and forth like some kind of miracle. He looked up to find a woman's face covering the sky. Her long dark hair draped the night and twinkled with stars. There were tears flowing down her cheeks and as they dropped from her chin, they frosted in the cold air. He gasped when he realized he was standing in a blizzard of her frozen sorrow.

It was edging on into two in the morning when Dean swore and jerked the Impala off the interstate onto a slushy exit ramp. The car fish tailed a bit in the snow which had Dean swearing even more. The strange side to side sway, much like bobbing of snowflakes, woke Sam in the passenger seat. He jerked a bit before sitting up straighter

"What?" Sam asked blearily. He started rubbing his eyes like a small child. Thankfully, the road was taking up all of Dean's attention because he was too tired to be mocked.

"Snow," Dean replied through gritted teeth. "Road's bad. We need to find somewhere to stay."

Snow, of course, it had started some time as they had crossed into North Dakota and hadn't slowed down by the time he had fallen asleep. Sam rolled his neck and made impressive cracking noises in the silence. It wasn't long until a small motel peeked its way through the curtain of white. Dean barely got the Impala into the driveway without going sideways. There were a lot of cars parked in the slots and Sam heard Dean bite back a growl as he stalked into the office. Sam was right behind him, and he was amazed at the change in his brother's face as they stepped through the door. He went from sulky punk to all-American boy in half a second.

"Man it's pouring down out there!" Dean said with a smile to the man behind the counter.

The man was watching an old television intently. He barely acknowledged them with a grunt over the canned laughter of some sitcom. Dean's good boy smile edged into maniacal, but the man didn't seem to notice.

"We need a room," Sam said before Dean could say anything that would have them back on the road.

"There's only one room and don’t nobody want it."

"Why is that?" Dean asked.

"Said it was haunted or somethin'. Personally I don't put much stock in that stuff, but people been bringing back the key all night. It's the room on the end. We don't usually fill up enough to sell it. Maids never seemed to have any problem with it during the day," the man said digging around behind the counter. He pulled out a key on an old fashioned diamond shaped keyring. The number on the faded orange plastic had been worn down with time.

"We don't believe in that stuff either. We'll take it," Dean said after shooting Sam a look.

"Eighty five for the night. No ghost refund."

"Eighty five?" Dean said indignantly, but Sam quickly stepped in front of him with his own smile.

Dean went back outside with a quiet hiss, probably to move the car. Sam breathed a sigh of relief, and held out one of their many credit cards. He checked the name on the card before signing the slip and taking the key. The air outside hit him like a blow as he stepped out of the office. The jacket he was wearing was no where near warm enough for the weather. Sam shoved his fists in his pockets and edged around the building. He quickly walked past all the other rooms until he came to the last. The car was already parked in front. Dean was digging around in the trunk still cursing his lot in life. He closed the lid carefully, never letting his emotions endanger his ride. Sam watched as he hefted their working duffel in one hand and his personal one in the other before trudging through the already accumulating snow. He smiled at the flakes dotting his brother's hair before he walked around to the passenger side and got his own bag.

"Did you get the shovel? We may have to dig the car out in the morning if this doesn't let up."

Dean grunted, obviously unhappy that the snow was defacing his 'baby.' What Dean saw in that car was beyond him. He supposed it was nostalgia. They had spent most of their childhood in the back seat going from place to place. His brother had never smiled as much as on the day that dad had handed him the keys for good.

"So what do you think?" Sam asked as soon as they had stepped into the room.

"I think we get rid of whatever this is so that I can get some sleep."

"You could've let me drive," he said as he threw his things on the room's lone bed. It didn't matter which side he chose. Where ever they stayed, Dean always took the bed—or in this case side—closest to the door, same as their father had always done. Dean would call it gallantry. Sam just called it annoying. He was old enough now not to need protecting.

Dean shot him a look. "I'm not sick anymore, Sam. I'm fine. Plus, you are not driving my baby in the snow. _I_ barely managed to get us here."

"I know how to drive in snow, Dean."

"What are you talking about? You lived the past four years in Southern California." He snorted and pulled out the EMF reader.

The room didn't give off much of anything but as soon as he pointed the antenna at the bathroom, it began to squeal. Dean shot him a look and then raised an eyebrow.

"Feel free to take the shower first, baby brother."

"Thanks, Dean, you're all heart," he replied and then cringed at his poor choice of words. Dean just rolled his eyes and opened the bathroom door.

They stood in the doorway, hesitant to enter the tiny room. Sam reached over and flicked on the light. It revealed nothing but stark white tiles with aging grout and a tub shower combo that looked like it would only barely contain his tall frame. Sam sighed and moved back into the main room. Dean shut the door giving it a squint like he was daring it to try something.

Sam said, "Doesn't look suspicious."

"It'll wait until we're asleep. They always do." With that comforting thought, they got ready for bed.

Whenever he and his brother were forced to share a bed, they always fell back on the same old pattern from childhood. Each of them would start out on the furthest edge leaving what space they could in the middle. Sooner or later, Dean would try to steal the covers, and they'd end up in a tug of war that would eventually pull the both of them to the middle of the bed. After some grumbling, complaining, and occasional kicking, he and Dean would settle down and finally get some sleep. Sam always woke up from these nights on his stomach with his face pushed against Dean's bicep and an arm around his brother's middle. And no matter what he did to the contrary, Dean always had both pillows when they woke up. He was sneaky like that.

They'd both gotten to the kicking, grumbling part when a sound from the bathroom quieted them. It was soft at first, but slowly built in strength until they could hear it clearly for what it was, a woman crying.

"Oh God, not a Weeping Woman. I hate Weeping Women."

"They're just a different version of a Woman in White." Sam said untangling himself from the blankets and pulling on his jeans. "Besides, I think North Dakota is a little out of the way for a La Llorona. Don't you?"

Dean grunted and got up. It didn't even matter that he was standing there in only his black cotton boxers, he just reached for the salt and the hunting knife he had left on the bedside table. That was Dean all over. In the grand scheme of things pants were never as important as weapons. Sam pulled the shotgun out of the bag on the floor. They edged forward. Dean tested the door and nodded for Sam to take the lead since he had the shotgun. Sam checked the chamber quickly to make sure that he had the rock salt shells loaded. He stood ready while Dean pulled the door open with a jerk.

The room was dark despite the fact that Sam was sure he hadn't cut the light off after their initial investigation. The weeping was louder. He nodded his head toward the lamp across the room, and Dean stepped over to turn it on. The light showed nothing but emptiness in the bathroom. The weeping had stopped. Sam edged in slowly, keeping the gun trained on the shower. The curtain was closed. Dean hadn't crossed the room to join him yet. Sam was two steps into the room when the lamp fizzled out and the door slammed shut behind him. He was standing in pitch darkness. He jumped a bit when he heard Dean collide with the door on the other side.

"Let me in!" Dean yelled, the door muffling him a bit.

"Let me out!" Sam yelled back. He could hear Dean jerking and twisting the knob, and then... "Oh God!"

"What? What!" Dean said, sounding more frantic as he began to pound on the door.

"Something just grabbed my ankle!"

"Well shoot it!"

"Dean, this bathroom is the size of a postage stamp! If I shoot in the dark at my foot, I'm just going to hit my foot!"

"Hang on a second! I'm going to have to get the axe out of the car!"

Sam took one hand off the gun long enough to pull a lighter from his pocket. The flint took three strikes before the small flame danced in the darkness. The mirror was behind him so he didn't have the added light of reflection, but it didn't matter. She was lying on the floor, head bowed, with one hand wrapped around his ankle. She was deathly pale with long black hair and coal dark eyes that sparkled in the light. Her legs seemed to disappear into the darkness where he knew the bathtub began. The flickering light cast shadows over her face from the strands of hair that hung over it. Sam lowered the shotgun to her forehead. She looked up into his eyes then. The light shimmered over the tear tracks on her cheeks making them glisten. She made no move to stop or harm him. The end of the shotgun wavered in Sam's hand. Finally, he dropped it to his side.

"Hello," he said quietly.

She didn't answer. Sam slowly sat down wedging himself between the sink's counter and the toilet. He peered over his knees at her. She hadn't let go or looked away from his eyes. The lighter was getting hot in his hand so he set the shotgun on the floor under the counter and gently placed the cheap Zippo knock off between them. She looked down at the flame with the same glassy expression she'd given him. Finally, the icy grip around his ankle loosened. He watched her hand slide away from him. Her fingers danced in the lighter's flame making it burn brighter. It was only then that he saw the jagged mark down her arm. Sam remembered a lecture his dad had given he and Dean once when they were younger.

"Traumatic deaths," he had said, "don't always mean murder. Sometimes it can be an accident. Sometimes it's suicide. Check everything. The more you know, the better chance you have at figuring out how to stop it." He remembers Dean nodding with a serious expression like what he was hearing was the gospel. Sam had had questions, but he'd learned long before then not to ask them. Their father had never appreciated the kinds of questions Sam had asked. Dean's questions were always 'how' and 'when' and 'what do you think, dad?' Sam had often asked 'why?' Why wasn't something that a hunter needed to know, apparently. Why wasn't as important as 'how hard' and 'with what'.

"My name is Sam," he said to her quietly.

She looked up from the flame, but once again didn't speak. Slowly he reached toward her and pointed at the gash down her forearm.

"Did you do that to yourself?"

Her expression tightened into a sorrowful one. She pointed at him through the lighter's flame.

"Me? I won't lie and say that I haven't thought about it, but..." Sam looked at the door. He'd still heard no sign of his brother. "There are people who need me."

Her tears seemed to glitter brighter in the darkness, but the corners of her mouth turned up just enough to hint at a smile. She looked at the door herself. When she turned back her eyes held a question.

"He's my big brother. He always thinks he has to protect me, but recently I realized every once in a while he needs someone to protect him. Do you think that's silly?"

She tilted her head to the side neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Sam sat with her in the quiet for a few more minutes before he tried again.

"What do you want? Is there something I can do for you?" he asked.

Her eyes dropped and this time she shook her head no.

"I have experience with this sort of thing."

She looked up at him and her eyes turned dark as she glanced over at the shotgun. Sam felt a flush of embarrassment despite himself.

"Not all of the things we deal with want to just have a nice talk like you do."

Her face softened again. She sat up straighter and leaned over the lighter. One chilly hand braced gently on his knee the other reached forward and pushed his hair out of his face. Sam didn't move, didn't breathe, as her tear stained, pale face drew closer. She seemed to notice his hesitation and adjusted her trajectory. Sam shivered as her cold lips brushed against his forehead. The lighter struggled against a nonexistent wind before blowing out completely. Once again, Sam sat in the dark.

There was a bang on the door. Sam jumped and ended up whacking his elbow on the toilet.

"Sam! Sam, I'm here! Talk to me!"

"Hang on!" he replied and levered himself up to his feet. He heard the lighter get kicked over as he moved forward to feel for the door. The knob turned easily in his hand and the door swung open. The lamp across the table was on again. Dean stood in front of him, still in his underwear, with the axe raised. Sam rubbed his sore elbow.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked. His eyes were searching the room behind.

"Yeah, I think she was just lonely."

Dean's lips pursed in anger. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I interrupt your date, psychic boy?"

Sam looked at his brother's wet feet. He must have run out in the snow barely dressed as he was to get the axe out of the car.

"Me?" he asked. "What took _you_ so long?"

Dean looked at the axe before tossing it onto the dresser with a loud clatter. "Damn trunk was frozen up. I couldn't get it open. Are you really okay?"

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam replied before turning to retrieve his lighter and the shotgun.

His brother's hand on his shoulder stopped him. Dean stepped past and retrieved them himself. He then pulled the salt off the table by the lamp and made a half circle on the carpet around the door to keep whatever was inside in. Sam didn't think they needed the precaution. He doubted she'd show back up again, but he didn't tell Dean that. If it made his brother feel better to do the whole manly protector bit, then Sam would let him for tonight. They'd had too many scares and close calls lately. He didn't say a word, just climbed back in bed and tried to straighten the blankets. Dean joined him after a minute and Sam noticed he kept the shotgun on the floor beside the bed within easy reach.

For once, Sam didn't feel like doing the tug of war routine. When Dean tried to steal the covers, Sam just came with them and plastered himself behind his brother.

"Dude," Dean mumbled and rolled onto his back.

Sam slid over a bit to give him room before he flopped onto his stomach and pushed his face into Dean's bicep. Dean pulled his arm free and Sam was sure that he was going to get smacked, but then he felt a rough hand start to rub circles on his back. Sam moved closer and rested his head on Dean's shoulder, his arm around Dean's middle. He rested his hand over Dean's heart and just felt the steady beat.

"I'm fine," Dean whispered.

"Stay that way."

"Only if you quit giving me heart attacks like tonight, bitch."

"Jerk."

"Asshole."

"No, you're the asshole, I'm the pretty one."

Dean snorted. "I'm the pretty one. You're the smart one and don't you forget it, college boy."

"Yes sir," Sam mumbled, his lips moving against Dean's collarbone. He didn't even mind when he felt Dean steal his pillow because the hand went right back to rubbing between his shoulder blades.

He dreamt about snow. The big fluffy kind. The flakes caught in Dean's hair and eyelashes and when his brother looked up he smiled brighter than any snow could hope to be. The sky was covered in a million stars and the moon lit the snow into a blazing field of white. Dean was leading him along a path, and their feet made loud crunching noises in the silence. He didn't know where they were going, but he trusted his brother to find the way. Sam tilted his head back and stuck out his tongue to catch the flakes. He could hear Dean chuckling at him. It was a beautiful night.


End file.
